


The Art of Devotion

by Arveldis



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arveldis/pseuds/Arveldis
Summary: “Tea is an expression ofadmiration, Edmund, and that is why we must prepare it with care and reverence, as one would with any art. All forms of art reflect their creator’s devotion, including tea.”Edmund reflects on a childhood lesson and makes tea for Anna at Whitehall, during which he offers to teach her the harpsichord. Takes place during 2.05, before Edmund’s capture.
Relationships: Edmund Hewlett/Anna Strong
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. A Mother’s Clairvoyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund makes tea for Anna at Whitehall.

Edmund Hewlett had always had an appreciation for the finer things in life and had, perhaps, grown a little too dependent on his taste for wine while in the colonies. Dealing with Simcoe regularly could do that to a man, though, he reasoned, having a small urge to justify what had rather quickly become a habit. But while wine relaxed his nerves in a delightful way and simultaneously allowed for a delicious moment of decadence while basking in the flavor, it was _tea_ that truly calmed him. And not just drinking tea, but the act of _making_ it. Oh, yes, Whitehall had servants who would normally do such a task, or Mrs. Woodhull when guests were present, but Edmund had been raised by a mother who firmly believed that any respectable Briton should know how to make tea and to so _well_ , with the utmost regard and care for the art; hang the fact that performing a tea service was a woman’s role.

Edmund measured out a spoonful of tea leaves from their canister and tapped them into the empty silver teapot. He then reached for the kettle of hot water, careful to only touch its wood handle, and poured the water over the leaves. They swirled in an eddy around the stream of water and began to diffuse, leaking a pale yellowish tinge into the water. As they spun in the current Edmund had created, the long, rolled strips began to unfurl, clotting the water in a pine-colored mass. Edmund placed the lid on the teapot and moved the pot onto a dish so as not to scald the table.

As he waited for the tea to steep, he placed two teacups and two saucers onto the filigreed tea tray, laying a spoon next to each cup and saucer. He added a pitcher of cream for himself and small bowl of sugar lumps for Anna. He had noted during their breakfasts together that she always elected for one sugar lump in her tea, refusing cream.

He surveyed his work. With a small frown and furrow of his brows, he adjusted one of the spoons so that it lay more straightly next to its cup. _There_. He smiled in satisfaction.

A delightful aroma of the fresh, grassy notes of Richard’s Young Hyson green tea wafted through the room. Edmund closed his eyes and allowed himself to savor the moment, breathing deeply of the scent and filling his lungs with the fragrance of his youth.

_Elegant hands cradled the canister of leaves and withdrew a pinch to hold under his nose. He wrinkled it in disgust._

_“It smells like grass, Mother. Cocoa smells much better.”_

 _His mother’s eyes crinkled fondly, and she tapped his still-wrinkled nose. “To you, perhaps. But tea is a symbol, and cocoa is not. When we make tea, it is not simply to appreciate the flavor, but to show our appreciation of those whom we are drinking with. Tea is an expression of_ admiration _, Edmund, and that is why we must prepare it with care and reverence, as one would with any art. All forms of art reflect their creator’s devotion, including tea.”_

Edmund slowly opened his eyes. He rubbed his thumb over the knobby swirls that graced the handle of the teapot. He could see his mother’s hands holding each piece of the silver tea set, running her graceful fingers over the same swirls. But she was an ocean away, alone in their Scotland home. A pang ran through his chest, but he directed his mind to think of the letter sitting in his desk drawer, waiting to be sealed and mailed. She may be alone, but she was not forgotten; and he was certain she would very much enjoy the contents of his letter. She had long awaited such news.

Edmund tipped open the lid of the teapot and inspected the hue of the water. Not too clear and not too dark: the perfect saturation of color and taste. He placed the teapot on the tray and settled next to it a small bowl for collecting the dregs.

Picking up the tray gingerly, he walked with careful precision of step to the sitting room that Anna had taken to reading in after breakfast. Richard closeted himself away in his room in the early morning, and Mary was outside with Thomas, so he and Anna were certain to not be interrupted.

As he walked through the doorway to the sitting room, Anna looked up from where she sat in a chair in front of the hearth, book balanced on the arm of the chair and her chin cradled in her free hand. He smiled at her, with a touch of self-consciousness, and prayed to God in heaven that he wouldn’t trip now after making it all the way from the kitchen without any mishaps. God, fortunately, evidently both heard and granted his prayer as he crossed the short distance to her chair.

Anna returned Edmund’s smile and closed her book. Though she looked slightly bewildered, her eyes shone warmly. “Edmund, to what do I owe this?”

“Well, since both Mary and Richard are occupied, I thought we might enjoy tea together.” He forced an awkward smile, floundering at what now felt to be a very bold action and statement, but pressed on before his face contorted in horror and his tongue ran off without him. “I have always found making tea to be relaxing, and with all of the Simcoe business of late, I have needed the distraction. And it always preferable to drink tea with company.”

He smiled what he hoped was a confident, easy smile as he handed her a teacup and saucer, careful not to brush her fingertips. Though her fingers instinctively wrapped around the saucer, her eyes never left his face.

“You made this?” she said, her words lilting upward in surprise. “I would have thought Aberdeen did.”

“Ah, yes, I did. My mother taught me when I was very young, and it has been a habit ever since. She considered tea to be an art form, one that every respectable member of society should learn, regardless of the traditional roles associated with it.”

“She sounds like a fine woman and a wonderful mother.” Anna held her teacup out for him to pour the tea into.

“She is.” Edmund stopped pouring, and his eyes flicked up to hers, taking in the sincerity of her face. It held no judgment. His lips twisted into a small smile, and though he glanced down in a spike of nervousness at sharing such a heartfelt moment with her, he felt strangely at ease in her presence. He waded deeper into this strange sensation of acceptance. “Of course, she also taught me the harpsichord, because I had no talent with a violin.” He lowered his gaze in mock-contrition, though he darted a glance to read her face out of the corner of his eye.

Anna smiled in amused disbelief and lowered her teacup from her face, leaning forward slightly in interest as she did. “Truly?” Her eyebrows arched in graceful surprise.

“I’m afraid so. It sounded rather like a screeching bird.” His lips tugged upward as he poured his own tea, and he met her expression of mild astonishment with chuckle.

“And here I thought you would be skilled in all the arts, Major,” Anna teased gently, her eyes bright.

“I failed the flute as well,” he confessed, suddenly feeling quite free and unabashed. His mouth slipped into what could now truthfully be called an easy smile, and he let his gaze wander her face since she was occupied with scooping a sugar lump into her teacup.

Anna stirred her tea thoughtfully, watching the ripples circle the rim. “Well, I was never able to understand the harpsichord, to my parents’ great dismay, so you are more graced in music than I am, despite your earlier attempts.” A soft smile accompanied her light ribbing.

Edmund tilted his head to the side and placed his teacup onto its saucer. “Anna, it is never too late to learn, if you should wish to do so. I would be delighted to assist you.”

Anna’s lips parted in surprise, but she nodded in assent. “That would be lovely, Edmund. I might be fit for society yet.” She gave a small, wry smile before biting her lip. “But Richard has only very advanced pieces in his collection that I could not hope to practice.”

“Ah, well. Never fear. I brought many folios of sheet music with me from Scotland and have not yet had the time to dedicate myself to playing them. You are quite welcome to practice with them in my stead. Some are fairly simple – scales and such – and would be no great challenge after a lesson or two.”

Anna gave a small nod. “Well, put that way, it almost sounds possible. But I do hope you won’t be scandalized by my abysmal skill,” she said in a light jest, her eyes once again bright. She cupped her teacup in her hands and brought it to her lips, watching him over the rim.

Edmund smiled softly, the corners of his mouth slipping upward in a graceful, shallow curve. “Never, Anna.”

Anna’s eyes crinkled – dare he think it was with fondness? – over the rim of her teacup. As she withdrew it, though, he could see the warmth was not just in her eyes, but her expression as well, and something equally warm flickered in his chest in response.

Suddenly feeling awkward again, he smiled a bashful, nervous smile and quickly averted his eyes to his own teacup.

Perhaps his mother had, as typical, been right. It seemed tea was a wonderfully discreet vehicle of conveying devotion – and a very enjoyable one, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. To provide context for the conversation about instruments, the harpsichord was considered a woman’s instrument in the 18th century, while the violin and flute were considered men’s instruments (because it was considered _scandalous_ for a woman to raise her arms while playing an instrument *gasp*). I’ve always found it hilarious that Hewlett is shown playing the harpsichord so often, when it was widely known as a female instrument. I don’t think it’s a mistake on the show’s part either, because Andre plays both the violin and flute – ever the epitome of the 18th century gentleman. 
> 
> So my headcanon is that Hewlett, as a man of the Enlightenment, might have a more forward-thinking bent toward his views about gender roles. He strikes me as being a bit like Henry Tilney (Northanger Abbey) with his regard toward women’s emotions and interests: something to be respected and appreciated. Hence his having no shame about playing the harpsichord.
> 
> 2\. If you’d like to read Hewlett’s letter to his mother that I mentioned, it’s the one on AMC’s site. Should be easy to Google and find if you haven’t seen it yet. It’s very sweet. :,) And, yes, the page says his mom is in England, but I changed it to Scotland since he calls that his home in the show, not England.


	2. The Language of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund teaches a frustrated Anna the harpsichord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretending there was an extra day between Anna moving to Whitehall and Hewlett being captured for this to happen. This is purely a fluff fic, and Simcoe’s shenanigans can wait a day. Or, you know, forever would work too. 
> 
> Brace yourselves for a completely smitten Edmund. The sap is strong in this one.

Edmund would be lying if he said that he had not wished the day away in order that evening might come sooner. But duty called, unfortunately, and the garrison would not run itself. Indeed, he feared it rather didn’t operate at all today, as he had spent much of the day sitting at his desk in an absentminded haze of anticipation, making weak efforts to focus on the tasks at hand. _Good God_. It was as if he had never left his youth.

Now, though, his annoyance at the tedium he had been subjected to all day melted away as Anna sat next to him, picking out the notes of a simple melody, her brow furrowed in earnest concentration. The light of the candelabra atop the harpsichord washed over her features and touched her hair in a faint glow.

Around them (though Edmund hardly noticed), the flames of the sconces bedecking the walls danced against the polished wood paneling and created soft pools of light on the rich wood, lending the room a comfortable warmth. Behind their place at the harpsichord, the fire snapped and popped, and Richard and Mary talked in quiet tones as they played chess.

Edmund waited patiently as he counted out the timing of the measure again, pointing with his index finger to the correct keys when she chose the wrong ones. Her curled fingers (he had spent a half hour on form alone, and it seemed to have made its mark) hesitatingly picked out the melody of Handel’s “Gavotte,” one finger at a time. She had yet to be able to completely engineer her hands to play together, except by reciting to herself a combination of the letters of the notes and a (somewhat flawed) count of the time values of the notes.

“ _G_ , _F_ —” Anna stumbled and two discordant notes rang in unison, their individual brassy tones vying for dominion. Frowning, she leaned forward to peer closer at the sheet music on the stand. She pointed to one of the notes.

“Isn’t that _F_?”

“ _D_ ,” he corrected, and pointed to the respective key in the octave in front of him. “It is the key in the middle of this set of twin black keys. The _F_ is two keys above, directly before this grouping of black keys. And in this piece, it is _F_ sharp, so it is the black key to the right of _F_.”

Anna watched his finger as he indicated the different keys and nodded slowly, before selecting the proper key in front of her. She pressed it down with her index finger and looked for her place on the sheet music. Finding it, she started the measure again, the bright notes of the melody tripping out carefully from under her fingers. She made it through half a line before the next clash of notes assaulted the room, crashing through the warm, comfortable atmosphere with all the grace of a felled tree.

Anna huffed a sigh and sat back from the keyboard, folding her hands in her lap. “Major, I think it’s time to concede and admit that I have no skill with this. I’m not ashamed of saying so.”

Edmund smiled gently and shook his head. “Nonsense, Mrs. Strong. It’s only the first lesson. No one can play well their first time. I certainly did not.” A corner of his mouth turned up ruefully.

He nodded his head toward the sheet music and dragged the candelabra sitting on the harpsichord closer to the music stand so that more light fell over the lines of notes. “Let’s try again. I will count while you concentrate on the notes.”

Anna’s face said _exactly_ what she thought of this proposal, though her mouth did not (for which he was grateful). Nevertheless, she straightened and poised her hands over the keys again.

As he counted the notes slowly, she recited the letters of the notes in a hesitating fashion, as she tried to divide her gaze between the music and the keys, her eyes flicking up and down in an unsteady attempt to orient herself between page and keys. A few more stumbles here and there, and he nodded in encouragement each time until she had finished the page.

“Good, good! Again. Count with me this time.” He counted off a measure, and she started the piece anew, her counting halting as she now had to divide her attention between counting and hitting the right notes.

One of candles in the candelabra sputtered and died in a wisp of smoke, and Edmund shifted slightly in order to see the music better from his vantage point on the end of the bench. But she hardly seemed to notice, her gaze fixed on tracking the dots of notes marching up and down the lines of each bar. Watching her carefully from the corner of his eye, he gradually dropped his voice lower and lower until it became inaudible, and she still didn’t notice. She continued to count the notes to herself, dark eyes intent upon the page and posture determined. He smiled to himself at the sight.

Edmund leaned back and listened, now watching her face more than the sheet music, entranced, though he remained facing the music stand so that she might not catch him openly staring. Though her fingers lacked the grace as yet to draw forth the voice of the harpsichord, _her_ voice was a melody all its own, even in such a simple task as counting. Indeed, every protestation of ineptitude, every frustrated exclamation after another botched scale, every plea to _please be done with this measure_ _already_ – each was another movement in a sonata uniquely Anna: one of frankness and humility presented in the most lilting of melodies. And it was a melody he wished to never end.

Anna continued to pick out the individual notes, her neck arched in a graceful curve as she leaned over the keys in her diligent effort. The flames of the candelabra glittered brightly in her dark eyes and illuminated the chiaroscuro of her short brunette curls resting against the fair skin of her temples.

A crash of two adjacent keys clashing in unison broke his reverie. Anna’s thumb had slipped and struck two keys instead of one. She sighed heavily and brushed a few stray hairs off of her forehead in a short, abrupt sweep of her hand before turning to look at him, aghast.

“You stopped counting!” she exclaimed.

“Well done, Mrs. Strong.” A broad smile slid across his face as his eyes crinkled warmly. “I believe you played half of that page by yourself.”

An annoyed scoff half-managed to make its way out of her throat before she, too, began to smile. She bit her lip in an attempt to hold her grin back, but her face soon beamed with delight.

“I—” She stopped and schooled her face into a sterner expression before meeting his gaze evenly again. “I thought we agreed that you would assist me, Major.”

“I can think of no better assistance than to allow you to learn to rely on yourself and your instincts. And, anyway, I hardly think you can call yourself a ‘lost cause’ with music anymore. You have improved greatly even in this short period of time tonight.”

Anna looked as if she would like very much to roll her eyes to the ceiling, but she refrained, if just barely, and instead fixed him with a reproachful sideways glance. “Hardly.” She brushed her fingertips over the edges of the keys, lingering briefly before dropping her hand into her lap. “It seems a foreign language to me still, and I do not hope to ever fully understand it – although not for your lack of effort in helping me. Perhaps music is a language some people aren’t meant to become fluent in.”

Edmund huffed in disbelief. “Nonsense, Mrs. Strong. The language of music is universal, appreciated and understood by all, if nothing else. It is by no means an exclusive tongue. It simply takes time to learn, as does any language. You must give yourself a chance.”

Anna pressed her lips into a line. “And I suppose you would say that that involves playing this piece yet again.”

Edmund smiled brightly and bobbed his finger in satisfaction. “Precisely. Practice is essential.” He tilted his head in consideration. “Let me accompany you this time to set the tempo. We’ll count together again, but at a slightly faster tempo.”

Anna opened her mouth in protest, but Edmund held up his hand. “Only slightly,” he assured her. “And I can slow the tempo if you need me to.” He placed his hands on the keys and looked at her expectantly. “Shall we?”

Anna brushed her hair from her face again and curled her fingers over the keys, nodding when she was ready.

Edmund counted them off, and she joined in: “One, two, three, four…” He marked each downbeat with a sweep of his hand that Anna hardly noticed as she followed the notes on the page, her gaze serious and fixed.

And as Edmund sat next to her, nearly shoulder to shoulder (though he had tried to maintain a proper distance), he marveled that it was tea – simple, green tea – that had brought them to this moment of closeness. The drink was remarkable in its effects, indeed.


End file.
